


Pretty Pictures

by pumpkinpeasy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Castiel, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Beekeeper Cain, Brainwashing, Castiel is 19, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Daddy Kink, Dean is In Over His Head, Dean is a Softie, Dean to the Rescue, Diary/Journal, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Forced Crossdressing, Fucked Up, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, Innocent Castiel, Letters, M/M, Nude Photos, Only mentioned though, Parent/Child Incest, Photographer Dean, Photography, Protective Dean Winchester, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpeasy/pseuds/pumpkinpeasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is virtually your average photographer. He takes weekly trips into the forest, to photograph nature, but when Dean and Sam move to a new town, Dean finds that the town's forest.. isn't your average forest.</p><p>Dean stumbles upon an old cabin with a dark secret, a prisoner, and several games to be played to get the prisoner free. Many of which require his photography skills come into play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Pictures

Dean Winchester was virtually your average photographer. He left every Saturday and Sunday morning to go and photograph nature, squeezing out dozens of Polaroids per hour. Cities, nature, and people were all ideal things to snap pictures of, as long as they peaked his interest.  
  
His favourite place to go, however, was always the woods behind his and Sam’s house. But since they had moved, a 27-year-old Dean had begun trekking the forest closest to their home. He was a curious young man with curious talents to capture the perfect aesthetic in a single snapshot. He’d made quite a decent living off of it, so far, helping to pay for their quaint and clean-cut butter-yellow bungalow in town. And to help pay for Sammy’s college classes, but he wasn’t really counting that.  
  
Dean trudged through the forest slowly, one Saturday afternoon, neck craned back to observe nature at its finest. Bright golden shafts of sunlight beamed through shimmying branches and swaying leaves, the thick wildgrass swimming around his ankles. Sparkling dew was still coated in droplets atop every leaf and petal from this morning, glinting just perfectly in the light of the glowing sun.  
  
He snapped a few pictures of a magenta hyacinth gathering, watching their dewy petals sparkle.  
  
Pictures of flowers and forests just soared off the shelves, like photographs of babies and Tumblr-inspired cupcake decor. He wasn’t complaining; he loved photography. Dean just wished he could afford a wee bit more variety, every now and again.  
  
Maybe when the house loan was paid off, and Sammy was through college, he could photograph whatever he liked.  
  
Dean shifted backward, snapping several more Polaroids with his professional camera. It was pretty heavy to carry around all the time during his trips, but the quality of the photos had a serious impact.  
  
He held it up higher, to get a good shot of a tall, red oak.  
  
He moved back again, once he’d snapped it, and squeezed out a few more shots. Hiking up the unwalked trail was definitely worth this.  
  
Dean smiled to himself, and checked his film. He had plenty more room on the camera. The better to get the perfect photos with. He kept moving backwards, further and further, snapping pictures, till he almost tripped over a log.  
  
Scratch that -  a large stacking of logs. Looked like a gathered bunch of firewood. Big, cleaved halves of logs were stacked pretty neatly together. Far too neatly for a forest creature. Dean looked around, but didn’t see a cabin close by. Hesitantly, he snapped a picture of it, for no real reason.  
  
Dean swallowed. He wasn’t aware that anyone inhabited these woods. Still, he trekked onward, the branches on the ground catching a bit on his jeans. He followed what appeared to be a worn-in pathway, nothing more than a rut in the soft soil from repeated walking. Dean tugged anxiously at the band draped around his neck, connected to the camera. He traveled onward, only snapping a few more pictures as he went, truly curious who would inhabits the woods, here, when there was a town not a mile away.  
  
He managed to photograph a gathering of bright-red peonies, the stems swaying in the balmy breeze. Then, he looked up, and saw a cabin slowly creeping into his eyeline.  
  
He supposed someone could definitely live there, since the wood had been freshly cut, but he couldn’t figure why. Dean moved on, hiking up the slightly steep incline, almost like a hill upwards, and soon reached the front of the cabin.  
  
The cabin was large. Larger than any cabin he’d seen before, now that he was getting an up-close look. More like a weather-beaten, wooden mansion, without the frills of luxury.  
  
Its outside was a bit dirty, ivy crawling up the sides of the place like great, swamy-green arms. Weeds encircled the house, cobwebs clinging to the rafters and windows like nobody cared for the outside of the place. The entire inside was dark and gloomy, seemingly uninhabited. Dean snapped a photo of the very large house on his Polaroid, then quietly stepped up.  
  
The steps were his enemy, groaning with each shift of his weight. He stowed the camera in his backpack for safekeeping, not intent on taking any more pictures for now. Dean wiped at the glass windowpanes in small circles, peering inside at the creepy manor, and heard something cry.  
  
It sounded like it was coming from above, inside the house, perhaps the second storey. For only a moment longer, the tiny whine continued, before dying away. Then, it came a second time, as if responding to his approach of the house. Any number of things could be causing that soft little cry, but none of them were good.  
  
Dean moved to the door and tried the knob, but it didn’t work. Locked, from the inside. He instead elbowed a fragile windowpane, shattering it to pieces, then reaching inside and unlocking the window itself. If anyone was living here, he’d pay for the damage, but there was someone trapped inside.  
  
He pushed it open, and carefully crawled into the cabin through the window.  
  
It was dark and musty, smelling like old mothballs and used-up car freshner. It smelled sickly-sweet, too. Like fresh honey and flowers. His shoes sort of clacked on the lacquered floor with each step, and surprisingly, not much inside was covered with dust. Someone was actively living here, whether or not it was voluntary. True to his suspicions, when he turned, he saw bunches of flowers piled up on a sitting chair.  
  
Black Locust, magenta hyacinth, purple heliotrope, and other highly fragrant Spring flowers were gathered in pretty bundles, tied up with thin twine. Small pots were aplenty all around the place, filled with healthy plant soil and flourishing flowers.  
  
There was a continuous, quiet buzzing noise, peaking his radar. He took several steps forward, through the sitting room he’d crawled into, through the tiny foyer, and into the dining room. There was a small table, two chairs seated at it, bare dishware at the according places. Through the glass panes of the big, sturdy China cabinet by the fridge, he saw every clean dish stacked and displayed neatly.  
  
_“Somebody’s a bit compulsive, but okay.”_ he thought.  
  
Whoever the hermit was, he had a feeling he shouldn’t move any of their stuff. And that he shouldn’t stay much longer. He spotted a lone note on the fridge, held up by one of the many colourful magnets.  
  
_Daddy loves you._  
  
_There’s food in the fridge until next week._  
  
_Be a good boy while Daddy’s gone._  
  
The hairs on Dean’s neck were standing up, goosebumps prickling all over his body. Dean turned away from it. He saw a pristine, vintage turntable resting atop the counter. A bookcase near the stairs was dedicated to dozens, if not hundreds, of vinyl tracks. They all looked like a beautiful collage of taste and sight and sound, all lined up together and dust-free. He had the urge to bring out his camera.  
  
The smell of honey grew stronger, as he approached the pantry. He was genuinely curious, and sneaked a peek inside.

Pulling aside the folding panel door, he saw jars upon jars of honey. Glass mason jars were filled up with the sweet, golden semi-liquid, one seeming like someone had delved into it a bit already. Dean just swallowed, a bit deterred by the sudden compulsion that this person had.  
  
Their hobbies were clear; flower-picking, honey farming, and keeping a very tidy house. And possibly a prisoner. Dean ended his tour of the first level, deciding that the noise couldn’t possibly have come from here, and crept through the quaint little kitchen to traipse upstairs.  
  
There was a tiny whimper sounding from upstairs, much quieter than before.  
  
He quickly went up, then began searching for the source of the whines.  
  
“Hello?” he called.  
  
No answer. “Hello? I-I’m just here to help you…”  
  
Okay, so he was awful at communication. But if someone were truly in trouble, they would surely try to call back to him. Which they didn’t. Dean stood in the dark, narrow hallway upstairs, peering at the four doors on the sides, and the one at the very end. They were all shut. He listened intently, ears perking up at the slightest sound.  
  
Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, when he heard music began playing, downstairs.  
  
Vivaldi’s Autumn had begun its symphony, echoing through the entire first level of the house and onward. Without thinking, Dean padded quietly to the end of the hall, and opened the door closest to him. He crept into a bedroom, and shut the door silently.  
  
He could still hear the music over his frantic heartbeat.  
  
Sweat was prickling on his temples from the tension. He stood there, ear pressed to the door, and listened. His own breathing was unsteady and shallow. He could hear the strings and pangs of Vivaldi playing through the house on litanies of vibrant instruments. Dean slowly backed away from the door, hearing quiet footsteps.  
  
Bare feet crept quietly from another bedroom - thankfully not the one that Dean had been hiding in. Their steps were cautious and very light. Measured. Anticipated. They sounded small to him, as they stepped closer and closer to the door. He might be able to take them, if they wanted to fight.  
  
Then, all he heard was the soft click of a lock, and then little giggles as they ran away, downstairs.  
  
He immediately tried the doorknob, though he obviously knew it wouldn’t work, and sure enough, the door stayed shut.  
  
Pissed off and confused, Dean turned around to look at the room, and was taken aback. It seemed like a guest room that hadn’t been used in ages. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was as though time had come to a halt, inside these walls. Dust layered the neat bedsheets and the beautiful vanity by the en suite bathroom (which was no more than a toilet and sink with a mirror), and the curtains were drawn back. They wrinkled from years of wear, permanently indented where they’d been tied back, now. Sun had bleached virtually everything in here.  
  
He hadn’t seen the room before, but he knew that the colours should have been brighter. The sun had soaked up what they offered. He saw the dresser, too, was covered in dust, and cobwebs clung to anything that had stood still. Dean was getting serious, disturbing vibes from this place.  
  
He didn’t see a lock on the window, which led him to believe there was no way to open it. Dean started, when he heard those footsteps again.  
  
They softly padded their way back upstairs again, Vivaldi still playing from the kitchen. He heard them pause outside the door, and then get onto their hands and knees, shadow shifting from beneath the door’s crack.  
  
“Hello?” came a tiny whisper, sounding like a child.  
  
He didn’t dare answer, but part of him had to. “H-Hello?” he stammered softly, barely a breath.  
  
A soft chuckle from them, before he heard the lock click open. Dean quickly pulled the door open, but to his dismay, the child was gone.  
  
All that was there, was the bare dark floorboards, shining with undented lacquer. He rubbed his eyes, looking all up and down the hallway. He shook it off, and made downstairs for the door. He didn’t care anymore - this place was seven different kinds of fucked-up, and he wanted out.  
  
The child clearly wasn’t small, and could definitely find their way out if they needed to. And, if they were up for playing games with Dean, they clearly weren’t as miserable here as he’d thought. When Dean reached the door, he stopped in his tracks. A note was taped to it.  
  
In a nearly illegible scrawl, unsteady and childish lettering formed words. It had been written in what appeared to be blue crayon.  
  
_My Daddy doesnt like visiters._  
  
_Please dont touch his bees. He will be home soon. I like you -you are nice to come talk to me._  
  
_I saw you take pictures. My Daddy take pictures of me. Play with me._  
  
There was a small smiley-face drawn at the bottom. Dean reached for the knob nonetheless, not about to play with the psycho kid. And, true to his worry, the door had been locked somehow. Panicking inside and out, Dean scrambled over to the window and saw another note. It was also written in the scrawled blue crayon, taped to the window sill.  
  
_Dont leave please._  
  
This time, the kid had drawn what looked like a flower and a bee at the bottom of the paper, his lettering hasty and a bit sloppy, but good enough for Dean to read. His heart ached for the kid, not knowing what his “daddy” had been putting him through that would make him reach out to strangers.  
  
His mind flashed back to Sammy, when he was little, and how he’d always been a ray of sunshine. He was a sweet, concerned boy, when he was young. Sam had always been kind and tender, loving towards even the coldest of strangers, warming their hearts somehow with a touch of angelic innocence. Dean couldn’t imagine leaving his little brother in this cabin, so he should never leave any other child.  
  
Dean turned around, and went over to the turntable in the kitchen once more. Vivaldi’s Autumn was still playing, slowly - ever so slowly, coming to an end with a flourish of sound. The vinyl kept spinning, though the needle levered back to its sitting position on the base. He glanced around, before carefully lifting the vinyl from its player, and placed it back inside the empty slot in the display case.  
  
Choosing another at random, Dean picked it up and placed it upon the turntable, next. The kid was obviously shy, so he had to communicate differently. The label on this one read “BACH - Goldberg Variations BWV 988 Aria”.  
  
Soon, the song was playing loudly and soothing, through the house. Each touch of the piano keys were vibrant and heard at full, echoing with colour. He listened for a while, then heard a soft series of footsteps. A door opened upstairs, and by the time he’d made it to the staircase, it had shut again. The piano song kept playing, as Dean ran up the steps and made for the room across from the one he’d hid inside earlier.  
  
He shoved the door open, and was welcomed with an empty room.  
  
He could hear J.S. Bach ringing through the vents.  
  
The room was vacated, but clearly still being lived in - a stark contrast to the one he’d seen before. It had a small bed with soft, baby-blue covers, a matching lamp beside it, and a fuzzy blue rug at the foot of the bed. Pictures and paintings decorated the walls, and a small pine desk was sitting beside the pretty dresser.  
  
Teddy bears and a stuffed bunny were all lying innocently atop the rumpled bedsheets. Dean strode over to the desk, looking at the book on top of it. “DIARY” was printed in gold lettering across the dark cover. He opened it to the first page, just taking a peek.  
  
_Diary -_  
  
_This is my first letter._  
  
_Daddy came to my room and emptied my bottles. He didnt do that for four days. He kissed me and told me I was a good boy. He feeds me honey and milk. Sometimes fruit and bread._  
  
_Daddy was nice to me. He took me into his bedroom and touched me all over, kissing me and sucking little red bites on me. He pets my hair and tells me my head is so soft and pretty. I dont know if I tell you, but he is a good daddy._  
  
_He did it three times tonight. Touched me and kissed my parts. Daddys so nice…_  
  
Dean stopped reading there.  
  
He didn’t want to know more about what the child’s father was doing to him. Part of him felt sick to even read those words, his mind racing, heart rushing as he closed the book. Dean didn’t want to know what else the book had inside. From what it sounded like, boatloads of “Daddy” bad-touching the kid, and telling him it was okay to do that. Dean turned away from the table, not looking back at the diary.  
  
He just rushed from the room and walked across the hall, barging into the next bedroom he found.  
  
It appeared to be Daddy's room. The decor was a lot less childish, darker and in shades of brown and beige. He stepped inside, once he was sure that the place was also vacated. His body trembled with rage, seeing the mussed bedsheets and stained covers.  
  
The fatherly part of him was on fire, aching to seek justice for the kid. HIs jaw clenched hard, eyes bright. All he could imagine was Sammy going through that, and what it would have done to him. Dean would have felt the need to kill, but rescuing the boy would have to do. If the boy would come out and let him take him away from here.  
  
He tightened his grip on his backpack, and took out his camera. If he was going to seek justice, he needed proof. Dean quickly fired up his Polaroid, and started snapping photos of the bed. “Daddy” had likely done this to his kid more than once, so it wouldn’t matter if the diary entry was old. He took pictures of the dried stains on the bed, the rumpled pillows, even the half-empty bottle of lube on the nightstand.  
  
Dean’s mind was a constant stream of anger, sadness, and sympathy for the child. He squeezed out at least a dozen shots of the soiled bed, before he moved on to the rest of the room. His main objective was to find the child, but he had to know what was going on. Dean stowed his Polaroid again, then started rummaging through the drawers in the dresser. There had to be something that really proved the man’s guilt for what he’d been doing to his son.  
  
In-between unpacking the clothes from the drawers and fuming his anger, Dean suddenly felt something. There was a box inside, hidden behind a few pairs of pants. He pulled it out and quickly tried to pry it open, when he realized it was locked.  
  
Damnit.  
  
He needed a key. Dean kept scrabbling through the drawers and found nothing, so he resorted to digging around in the nightstand. He found more lube, boxes of condoms, some average sex toys, and a camera - but no pictures.  
  
Only when he opened up the small jewelry box on the dresser, did he find something worth looking into. Amid tiny, glimmering tchotchkes and little shiny stones, he found a silver key. It was small enough to belong to the box. Dean got on his knees, and unlocked the damned thing, opening it up. Suddenly, he realized where the pictures were.  
  
There were hundreds of naked photos of a boy - all the same boy.  
  
In fact, he wasn’t as young as he’d anticipated, given his speech skills and writing. He had to be at least nineteen in these photos, which weren’t weathered or yellowed with age. He had a tall, willowy body, almost to the point of looking underfed. His skin was light and soft-looking like velvet, his face awfully cherubic with thick locks of chocolate-brown hair framing a gentle face. Long, dark lashes fanned prettily over his cheeks. Big, crystalline blue eyes gazed at what had to be his “Daddy”, off-camera. His privates were hairless, body pinkened by a slight blush as he was photographed.  
  
The boy seemed to enjoy it, actually. He was smiling, sometimes even baring his teeth in a playful grin. His dimples…  
  
His dimples reminded him of Sammy.  
  
Dean fumed yet again, looking at the pictures. His “Daddy” was sick. Sick in the head. In some photos, he had the boy posing with his stuffed bunny and teddy bears, mouthing at the stuffed animal’s crotch while arching his back, to show his soft, full ass. Dean had to throw down the photos, when he saw one that depicted the boy being told to hump the teddy bear.  
  
He felt sick - like he was catching a contagion, and his body was reacting badly to even touching it.  
  
Dean jumped yet again, when he heard something thumping around in the attic.  
  
He got to his feet, realizing that that was where the boy must have been hiding, all along. Dean heard more thumping and giggling this time, before something moved, downstairs. He stacked the dirty photographs back into their box, placing it safely in his backpack as he left the bedroom. He looked up at the hallway ceiling, for some kind of attic entrance, but there was no push-in panel, or even a let-down ladder for him to use.  
  
It had to be on the second level, surely. Dean opened the fourth door, that he hadn’t yet opened, and found that it was merely a bathroom. The final door was a broom closet. Dean’s heart raced, as he went back into the boy’s room, and checked the ceiling. Surprisingly, there was nothing there; the ceiling was bare. Dean was ashamed to admit that he’d half-expected to see a sex mirror hanging above the bed, what with the goings-on of this house.  
  
Even checking the closet for some kind of let-down panel, he didn’t find one. He shook his head sadly, before exiting the room. Dean walked across the hall, his heels clicking against the lacquered floor again. He entered the old, dusty bedroom, in search for a way to enter the attic.  
  
He traipsed though the disturbing place, glancing at the ceiling, and - sure enough, there was a panel. It was situated awkwardly above the vanity, but Dean managed to climb high enough that he could pull the cord and let down the ladder. It creaked downward and unfolded, letting him put it down, and coming to a halt just before the foot of the bed.  
  
Dean got a grip on the ladder, and began climbing up to the attic.  
  
The upper space was even brighter than the lower floors. Large windows accommodated light to come flooding inside, and left the small room well-lit. He saw that someone had indeed been living here for quite some time. A spare mattress had been laid out, full with covers and blankets, even a pillow. Books were in a small pile beside the bed - Children’s books.  
  
The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Little Critter, and Fox in Socks. He recalled reading tons of those little books to Sam, when he was young, but never shutting him away in an attic. Not even for safekeeping. He saw that there were also a few empty juice boxes lying beside the bed, and a half-eaten bowl of Fruit Loops.  
  
Dean knew that the boy had to be nineteen - Twenty, at the maximum, and he was being treated like a toddler. Kept in a shell of innocence and beauty, kept in a state of constant allure, right on the edge of being feminine. He didn’t understand what the fuck was happening here, but he had to find the kid, and he certainly wasn’t in the attic, anymore. He’d likely escaped while Dean was inspecting the other rooms.  
  
Then, he spotted papers.  
  
Papers like the ones from the boy’s diary. He scooped them up, quickly taking one and reading it.  
  
_Diary-_  
  
_My Daddy says I am so pretty it makes me sad. He says I am too pretty. He keeps petting my head and kissing me at night, but he crys sometimes._  
  
_He is sad because Colette is gone. I dont know Colette, but she looks so beautiful. He says I have her eyes and hair, and I look like her. Daddy says I am a good son, and Colette would be proud of me._  
  
_She dies when I was nine, though. I just want to know her._  
  
Dean slowly exchanged it for another letter, taking his time to read them with thought. This boy had a fucked-up past, that was for damn sure.  
  
_Diary-_  
  
_Daddy was touching me last night and he said the wrong name._  
  
_He called me Colette. I feel gross - icky inside. He kept touching me, and I wantd him to stop and slow down but he got wet inside me and kept saying Colette._  
  
_After he got wet, Daddy made me call him Cain._  
  
  
_Diary-_  
  
_Daddy asked me to put on a dress yesterday. He said I was beautiful and then he started to cry._  
  
_He made me sit in his lap, and he touched me through the dress. It feels so good so I tell him I want more, and he kept rubbing me until my parts hurt and I made my dress wet._  
  
_He kissed me over and over and over and he made me lick the sticky stuff off my dress. Daddy touched his parts until he makes a noise and white wet stuff splashed on me. He yelled at me and makes me lick it up, too._  
  
_I dont want to wear dresses any more._  
  
Dean paused for a moment, allowing himself a few seconds to breathe. Really breathe, since the moment he’s walked in the house. He was in pieces for the kid. The boy was being used as a hole for his father, likely before his mother had even died.  
  
It had only gotten worse, after Colette had passed.  
  
Sighing heavily, he descended the ladder, but left it open once he reached the bottom. If he found it closed, it’d likely mean that the kid had found his way back up there, somehow. But Dean had no intent of losing the boy again.  
  
Grumbling, Dean trekked back downstairs, and suddenly froze in his tracks.  
  
The turntable had begun playing another song. The kid had placed another vinyl disc onto it, and it was now crooning the light and delicate sounds of Rossini’s The Thieving Magpie. Whoever this kid was, he was trying to compete with Dean - Playing his game, as he’d said before. Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, when he reached the bottom and saw another note. Taped to the table, this time.  
  
_Are you having fun?_  
  
_I like you. You like playing games with me? You like pictures. I see you taking pictures before, and you looking at my pictures._  
  
_Show me your pictures, please? I just want to see what you see outside._  
  
_My Daddy never let me go into the outside. He said its too dangerus for me.. Please keep playing with me._  
  
The blue scrawl was excited and packed tightly together on the page, the waxy crayon matter smudging onto Dean’s fingers as he touched it. Dean figured the kid had found a way to watch him, somehow, so he carefully took off his backpack and placed it on the table.  
  
Lucky for him, he’d already had some of his photos developed. He took out his small photo album, and placed it on the table, beside the boy’s note. He was actually vaguely curious as to how the kid was watching him… Dean walked over to the fridge - which was large enough for someone to hide in, if the shelves were taken out. He wouldn’t put it past the boy, since he was awfully clever.  
  
Opening it, he found that the shelves were indeed stocked for one person, for at least another five days. His “Daddy” hadn’t been lying, after all. Fruit and milk were inside, along with cheese and jam, and…  
  
What… Dean didn’t even know what that was.  
  
He pulled out a small jar that had been sitting beside the bunch of grapes, when he had the sudden, sick realization of what was in that jar. Dean quickly put it back, not even stopping to close the door before he puked in the sink.  
  
His insides wrenched, making him choke and spew up anything he’d eaten that day. God, this was a fucking dysfunctional family. The boy’s “Daddy” had given him a food supply, alright. Including a jar of what had to be the man’s ejaculate.  
  
Dean didn’t know how or why he’d stumbled into this travesty of a family, but he shut the fridge’s chilled door, and grabbed his backpack. The music was still playing. He walked behind the staircase, shuffling a little unsteadily, head still woozy from just vomiting, but he wanted the kid to come out. He swallowed down the acidic taste in his throat, waiting and watching.  
  
Soon enough, he heard a soft bump from upstairs in the hallway, and quiet footsteps padding down the stairs. The boy was so delicate as he moved, Dean could have mistaken him for an angel. He just tucked himself further behind the staircase, and watched him go. The boy moved closer to the table, all creamy skin and dark hair, dressed in a soft t-shirt and short boxers. Dean supposed his “Daddy” didn’t let him wear much else.  
  
The kid ooh-ed and aah-ed over Dean’s photo album. He sat down beside the table, tucking his knees up towards his chest and laying the album flat across his legs. He peered so close to the pictures, he was almost pressing his nose to them.  
  
Those other photos didn’t do the boy the slightest bit of justice. He was gorgeous - Breathtaking, even. He was honestly one of the most arresting people Dean had ever seen. His body was svelte and light-skinned, his face glamorously proportioned, hair a tousled mess, but still very pretty. Dean knew he was nineteen or so, but even from a purely aesthetic stance, he was beautiful. Hesitating for a moment, Dean pulled his camera out of his bag and crouched behind the staircase.  
  
With the boy completely enamored by his photographs, he took this opportunity in-hand. Dean aimed the lens directly at the boy, watching his angelic, lithe form for a moment before he clicked the button.  
  
The light flashed and the boy jumped, almost dropping the book, when he saw who it as. Those deep, enthralling blue eyes captured him immediately, and Dean stood there as the boy watched him. Quickly, the kid’s face was painted with a small smile, and he realized who Dean was. He was the man he’d been playing games with.  
  
“Hey there.” Dean murmured. He stayed cautious, watching the kid’s face.  
  
The boy waved shyly, glancing down nervously at Dean’s book.  
  
“How are you?” The kid shrugged slowly. “Okay… I take a picture, you gonna get mad?”  
  
He shook his head. “No.” came a gentle, pristine voice. “I like pictures.”  
  
“Cool. Awesome… What’s your name?” he asked.  
  
“Cas.” the boy said, smiling wider when he saw Dean’s interest peak.  
  
“Cas. That’s a pretty name.” Dean replied, and saw a soft blush creep into the boy’s cheeks. Cas, his name was. He held up the camera again, and took a picture of him head-on, this time. He flinched a little when the camera flashed, but then again, pretty much everyone did.  
  
“Cas, how old are you?”  
  
“Nineteen, now.” he said softly, “My Daddy, though… says I’m very much younger than that.”  
  
“I know, Cas… I know. D-Do you want to go outside?” he proposed, and watched Cas’s eyes light up. In fear or excitement, Dean couldn’t tell. “Come outside?”  
  
Cas shook his head. “No. Daddy says I can’t do that.”  
  
“Well… I think your daddy might be in trouble. If you can get dressed, we can go outside, and --”  
  
“No!” Cas said, clamping his hands over his ears, and looking away from Dean. “No! He says I’m too stupid to go outside.”  
  
“You’re not stupid. Not at all, Cas. You’re so smart…” he said, voice piercing the cover of Cas’s hands. “You’re so smart, I didn’t even know where you were. For hours.”  
  
Cas swallowed slowly, cautiously turning his head back upward so he could look at Dean, who still held his camera. The boy looked back down at the book in his lap, then at Dean, and the camera, then back again. Cas’s jaw worked like he wanted to say something. He sighed.  
  
“This is the outside.” Cas said, so quiet it was almost to himself. He nodded to himself, not looking back up at Dean. “I see it through the windows. Daddy… never let me go out.”  
  
Dean slowly lowered his camera, letting it hang around his neck. “You can go, with me, Cas.”  
  
Cas looked up.  
  
“With me. You and me can go to the outside, together.” he said, trying to coax the kid into leaving this godawful place. “We can go, and I’ll keep you safe.”  
  
He couldn’t help the watery crack in his voice. This was so much more than abuse - this was negligence and purposefully keeping someone at a maximum justifiable age of ten, to keep Cas dependent on his Daddy. The man he’d come to know and only call “Daddy”, was only looking for a familial substitute for his dead wife. Colette… Now that Dean thought about it, Cas and Colette sounded very similar, if said in the right tone.  
  
Cas sniveled softly, wiping at his eyes.  
  
“I have pictures, too.” he said.  
  
“I know, the naked ones.” Dean confirmed.  
  
“No-- No, not those.” Cas murmured wetly. “I have pictures.”  
  
Cas closed the album and put it on the table, then stood up and walked into the living room. He watched as Cas made his way to the fireplace, and picked up a decorated silver frame, containing a yellowed photograph. Dean walked over to him, Cas meeting him halfway and handing him the framed photo.  
  
Dean took it, watching Cas’s wide eyes as he looked down at it.  
  
The woman in the picture was astonishingly similar to Cas. High cheekbones, light skin, and eyes practically identical. Her hair was dark - also a shared trait, as well as their full, soft lips. The longer Dean stared at the photograph, the more Colette became Cas.  
  
The more Cas became Colette.  
  
“She’s my mom.” Cas murmured quietly, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.  
  
“You wrote about her… didn’t you?” Dean asked. “Colette.”  
  
Cas nodded shamefully, brow knitted and mouth slightly parted. That wasn’t entirely shame - it was sadness. He seemed to be recalling that he’d written about his mom, and it hurt him. Unlike Dean’s mother, she hadn’t died when he was barely old enough to remember. Cas’s mom had died when he was nine, he’d said, and he’d known her well. He’d wanted to know her more, but that hope had been extinguished by her death.  
  
Dean reached out carefully, touching Cas’s shoulder. The boy gave him a warm smile, and Dean knew it was forced. Cas reached upward and cradled his hand in his own, and brought it to his lips. Dean felt the warm press of Cas’s mouth against the back of his hand, and his body trembled from the physical contact.  
  
“My… My Daddy said…” he was trying, keeping his eyes averted from Dean’s bright green ones. “He told me… he doesn’t love me anyway.”  
  
“Cas…”  
  
“You promise I can go?” he asked, sounding close to tears and brokenhearted. “I can go, and I don’t have to be here forever?”  
  
Dean straightened up, holding his hand to Cas’s face, cupping his soft cheek. “I promise.”  
  
In under ten minutes, Cas had clothed himself and they had gathered up their things once more. Cas was lingering beside his bedroom door, peering into it, as if saying goodbye. He was, mentally, a child. Forced to be. But, that could be changed. Just like his dependency on his abuser could be changed, with time. Cas followed Dean slowly, dragging his heels, looking at the whole house before he left.  
  
“Should… Should we take my videos?” he whispered.  
  
“Your videos?”  
  
“My Daddy… likes to make videos with me.” Cas said, that shame and sadness returning to his voice. Dean would give anything to see it go away. “I -I I don’t want him to have them, _please…”_  
  
“It’s okay… Okay, Cas.” he assured him. “We should take your videos.”  
  
Cas went and got them, and before Dean knew it, he was leading him into the outside. He heard that awed gasp being punched out of Cas by the shock of what he was seeing, up close and personal. He felt him quivering beside him, and they started their night the same way Dean always started his own.  
  
Trekking back out through the forest, with something beautiful in tow.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, babies :) Please tell me what you thought.  
> I hope you enjoyed <3


End file.
